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Sunday, July 20
Review: Drop, Anchor - by Ben Barton
by
Charles Christian
on Sun 20 Jul 2008 06:14 PM BST
drop, anchor is the new chapbook collection by Ben Barton. Although the author is described as 'a queer poet from Folkestone' this is not a collection of gay poetry. True, there are some that deal with aspects homosexual relationships but essentially this is a highly accessible – and readable – collection of 21 shortish (in some cases very short – there's even a haiku in there) poems about love and life. And lovers and family. And even encounters in supermarkets. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it.
Although I suspect one of the key poems for Barton is The Re-Birth Remembered – about his still-born twin brother, which manages to be tear-inducingly sad without resorting to the usual cliches, the piece I found the most moving was Commandment No.5. This deals with the equally painful – but far more prevalent yet never seriously addressed – issue of the strained relationships that appear between fathers and sons as both grow older. Here's the opening stanza
My father is a stranger to me.
He never turns-up uninvited.
Sitting cautiously on the sofa
Genteel
He waits – never asks,
for a mug of tea.
• drop, anchor by Ben Barton is published by Erbacce Press (ISBN 978-1-906588-18-2). The price is £3.99 and you can order it direct from Ben Barton or, via PayPal, from Erbacce.
www.erbacce-press.com
www.benbarton.co.uk
Saturday, July 19
It's Saturday – time for another haiga
by
Charles Christian
on Sat 19 Jul 2008 04:38 PM BST
 • Alexis Rotella is a regular contributor of haiga to Ink Sweat & Tears
Friday, July 18
The lady likes them young - by Louise Halvardson
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 18 Jul 2008 05:23 PM BST
The lady who borrows youngsters
There are no items to satisfy her request
talking books about contemporary life don’t exist
She walks down the high street
pulls youngsters from queues
invites them for tea
and line them up on her sofa
in alphabetical order
She wants to be told everything
her eye-sight is too bad to read about
DJ’s, graffiti and raves
the life of her grandchildren
if she’d had children
When it gets dark mobiles
makes an alarming noise
the youngsters have been reserved
for someone more important
they want to be discharged
back to their lives
She takes the phones off them
asks their families and friends
if she can renew the loan
she doesn’t mind paying the fine
if she can keep them
for just a little longer
But the reminders
are piling up on the hall mat
her license to borrow has expired.
• Louise Halvardson was born in Sweden on a cold winter's day in 1982. When she was old enough she escaped to England and ended up in Brighton which inspired her to write a novel. It's called Punkindustriell hårdrockare med attityd and was published in Sweden last year. She's also active, going by the stage name of Lou Ice, as a performance poet. www.myspace.com/louicepoetry82
Thursday, July 17
New prose by Mandy Pannett
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 17 Jul 2008 02:30 PM BST
PATINES
She often walked along the waterfront in Venice. On a clear day she could see Belmont, high on its hill, mist-clad as usual like the fairy-tale it wasn’t. There were more stalls in the market these days – packed with bodies and sweat. One stall was selling monkeys, gibbering chain-clad creatures like the one she’d exchanged for the turquoise ring in the loving years. A horrible thing that gibbered and whimpered and chucked its wet faeces all over the place.
Sometimes she’d bring Leah to this rat-hole, but it was such trouble keeping an eye on the child and so near the water as well. ‘Leah’ – she’d never forget the row there’d been when she’d insisted on christening the baby with her own mother’s name. ‘A Jewish name,’ her husband said and spat. His cronies, all as drunk as skunks, backed him up of course. Their wives just gave her funny looks, drawing close. As they always did. Still, she got her way. She did, from time to time.
Faintly, from the Jewish quarter, came the dreaded, mournful sound. Sunset with its prayers for recent dead. ‘Who is dead now?’ she wondered, ‘Is it him?’ She wished it could be her. Runaway daughter, disgrace to her faith, thief − that was the bit that stuck in her throat – not the theft of the ducats but the ring, her mother’s ring. Sold for that perishing ape. She’d been told how her father had cursed her and wept. Well, all was a wilderness now.
She shoved her way along the water front. Soon be dark and a full moon. The floor of heaven, Lorenzo had called it, in the loving years Inlaid with patines of bright gold. She shrugged. ‘What heaven? What gold?’ There’d be none of that for her.
• A regular contributor to IS&T, Mandy Pannett runs an arts cafe, supports two local writing groups and
enjoys giving readings and running writing workshops. She has two
poetry collections from Oversteps Books – Bee Purple and Frost Hollow.
Wednesday, July 16
Two new poems by Colin Cross
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 16 Jul 2008 09:20 AM BST
TOMORROW
sometimes
I wake up
in the morning
and wonder
what day it is
but I always know
that the next one
is tomorrow
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
PIGS
although Anne
is twelve years
younger than me
we were both born
in the year
of the pig
which I reckon
makes us both
piglets
Anne collects pigs
which is maybe
why she hangs out
with me
and why
maybe one day
I'll find myself
hanging on her wall
like some kind
of bizarre trophy
• Colin Cross is a regular IS&T contributor
Monday, July 14
Carl Abt is writing
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 14 Jul 2008 04:29 PM BST
Writing
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
The time has come for letters.
Two toed,
Three toed,
Four toed,
Letters.
The time has come for words.
Two booted,
Four pawed,
Six bird-clawed,
Words.
The time has come for sentences.
Crisscrossing,
Overlapping,
Hunted,
Sentences.
Winter’s fresh blank page chills the Earth
So all may write and not be
Forgotten when unseen.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
• Carl T. Abt is an English major at the Ohio State University where he says he has entirely too much fun. This poem was first published in November 2007 by Expressions, a division of Sam's Dot Publishing.
Saturday, July 12
New haiga by Alexis Rotella
by
Charles Christian
on Sat 12 Jul 2008 06:36 PM BST
 • Alexis Rotella lives in the US and is a regular contributor of haiga to Ink, Sweat & Tears
Friday, July 11
New flash fiction by Mike Montreuil
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 11 Jul 2008 05:27 PM BST
MORNING RUN
Mary-Jane always believed that her morning run was the perfect way to start the day. Her husband, Malcolm, thought otherwise and soon began to resent those early morning intrusions into his sleep.
This morning was no different. Mary-Jane heard the music from the radio alarm clock. 6 o'clock. Malcolm groaned from his side of the bed. A weak "Fucking clock" was heard. She ignored the comment and began dressing. Within minutes, Mary-Jane was out the door; her run underway.
Now awake, Malcolm stirred under the blankets, scratching his balls and thinking about how to make his wife interested in a morning of sex instead of those fucking runs and work. Minutes later he was in the kitchen preparing coffee and his breakfast. Twenty minutes passed by and Malcolm began writing in his journal. But, the words would not come out and he decided to have another coffee instead.
Forty minutes had elapsed and Malcolm began to wonder why Mary-Jane hadn't returned. He finished his now cold coffee and began his morning bathroom routine. Looking in the mirror, Malcolm saw that his gray hair had invaded his chest. Age was catching with him and he knew it. If only they had succeeded in having children. Then, he would have a son to play catch with or even a daughter to give away at her wedding. He sighed knowing it was not to be in this lifetime.
Almost ready to dress for work, Malcolm noticed that the TV converter clock showed 7:25. Where was Mary-Jane? For no apparent reason, he decided, then, to have a look around the block. After putting on an old pair of work jeans, Malcolm began to tie his running shoes. As the clock on the fireplace mantel rang 7:30, Malcolm became part of an exploding two story house. Fire and rescue crews never found Mary-Jane.
• Mike Montreuil lives in Ottawa (Canada) and although he is a regular IS&T contributor, he has only recently begun writing flash fiction.
Thursday, July 10
AT gets physical
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 10 Jul 2008 06:02 PM BST
Physical
How?
How do you manage to do this?
I knew you were there –
rather I was there...
It was me
and the joy
at the first watch dad bought
at the first terelene shirt he got
at the first touch of her breast
it was me...
it has become a you now –
the magician's trick of
disappearance without a trace
like the traceless movement of the
gentlest of breezes
the touch,
the body,
that kiss of life –
physical
where... where...
only memories...
were they your's even at that time?
wordless
bloody silence
end
• A.Thiagarajan, postgraduate in English, taught in colleges in India, before joining the the finance sector. He has been writing in English and Tamil since college days. His work (poems, haiku, short stories and articles) has appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines including Subtle Tea, Poetic Diversity, A Little Poetry, Poetry Canada, pwreview, poetrysuperhighway, betterkarma, Indolink, The Heron's Nest, Haiku Harvest, Roadrunner, Simply Haiku Meghdulam, and Mainichi. He says the nuances of relationship between individuals, mental pain and the cruelty we inflict on each other and ourselves are his obsession. He lives in Mumbai, India with his wife, Rama.
Wednesday, July 9
Two poems by Sergio Ortiz
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 09 Jul 2008 07:29 PM BST
Simple Things
I say goodbye to simple things
like trees in autumn peel their leaves.
Melancholy is the sad slow death
of simple things that ache.
Stay for a while, beneath
my noontime sun.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Gothed
Tina painted my lips black,
paleness on the cheeks foggy
in layers of transparencies.
I gave so much to anger
it ached like a scared hitchhiker
blowing a trucker in traffic on Interstate 95.
You shook my hand,
offered beer. I said: Whiskey,
and lit a cigarette.
By 4am you were trapped
in the undertide of Mata Hari’s tongue.
You didn’t remember my name: Sam.
But it wasn’t because of the snake shaped ring,
with emerald eyes, eating its tail,
wrapped around my finger.
You left a rose in front of my door
every day for a week.
I took off the mask and smiled.
We’ll have to get a larger coffin.
Sergio Ortiz grew up in Chicago, studied English literature at Inter-American
University in San German, Puerto Rico, philosophy at World University and culinary art at The Restaurant School in Philadelphia. Among other titles, his work has been published in and The Cave, Origami Condom, Poets Ink Review,
FlutterSilenced Press.
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